


Isn't This Familiar

by Cinaed



Series: The Best of Carolina The Teenage Witch [11]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sabrina the Teenage Witch Fusion, Developing Relationship, Flashbacks, Harm to Animals, M/M, Magic, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 08:25:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18362279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: It's probably weird that an episode of a show where the titular character is only present in a voice-over is so good, but this episode is great. Grif and Simmons get a visit from a Council middleman, and between one visit in the present and one in the past, we see how much has changed for the two in just a year. Though we could've done without experiencing that eye-searing yellow zoot suit.





	Isn't This Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the parts of the series I wanted to write from the get-go, so I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I promised the update is not as angst-ridden as the tags imply. And please imagine Simmons eavesdropping with a glass to the door and almost having an aneurysm as his twenty dollar wine gets magically turned into a 250,000 dollar bottle instead. :D
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for looking this over step by step and making great suggestions, and to taller for helping me with the title.

“Hello! Another cat inspection?” Simmons asks with brittle cheer.

Grif resists the urge to put a paw over his face as the Council stooge walks inside and says with equally false heartiness, “Yes, good sir! It is indeed time for our yearly inspection, to ensure you are taking care of your cat correctly!” Sometimes Grif forgets that there are witches who haven’t left the Other Realm in centuries, and then weirdos like this guy remind him.

It’s the same Council stooge as before, and he’s just as behind on mortal fashions as last time. Now he’s wearing a bright yellow zoot suit instead of a Victorian outfit. Grif guesses being sixty years out of fashion instead of a century is sort of an improvement.

Kai pulled the look off better back in the forties, Grif thinks, and then tries to focus as Simmons, clearly panicking, shoots Stooge McGhee a pair of finger guns and says, “Cool, cool, cool, sounds good, duderino. Should I just, uh, take a walk?”

“What a good idea,” says the stooge, who doesn’t bother to introduce himself this time either. He uses a tone of condescension so thick someone could cut it with a knife. “You _should_ take a walk.”

Simmons looks like he regrets his own suggestion. He darts a quick, half-apologetic glance towards Grif, who keeps his face blank. “Right. Let me, uh, just get my keys.” He doesn’t look towards the couch, but Grif knows that he’s thinking about the hidden notebook. He grabs his keys and hesitates. “So how long do you think--”

“Oh, not very long,” the stooge says, and shoves him out the door and shuts it. Then he points a finger towards the door and intones, “The mortal suggested that he take a walk, keep him walking until we’ve finished our talk.”

Grif feels his fur bristle. He wonders if Simmons can feel the spell take effect. Probably. He bets Simmons was planning on listening at the door, trying to eavesdrop. Grif sits upright, tucking his tail under himself so that the agitated twitching won’t give him away. Still, he can’t keep himself from muttering, “So you’re just gonna use a spell on Simmons like that?”

The stooge’s fake smile is gone. He sneers. “Oh, please. A little magic won’t hurt him.” He raises an eyebrow. “Or are you worried about him?”

“No,” Grif says quickly. Too quickly, if the smirk on the stooge’s face is any indication. Before he can say anything, Grif adds, “So why are you here? I’m guessing it’s not to tell me that I’m getting time off with good behavior.”

The stooge rolls his eyes. “Hardly. No, I have other news.” He pauses, and Grif realizes that he’s trying to build suspense. He leans forward and drops his voice to a dramatic whisper. “Felix and Locus have escaped.”

“Uh huh,” Grif says. It’s only when the stooge’s eyes narrow that he realizes he was supposed to be surprised. He licks the tip of his nose, thinking hastily, and then gives a deliberate yawn. “Now what’s the real news?”

“That _is_ the real news,” the stooge says, looking annoyed.

Grif snorts. He injects as much sarcasm as possible into his voice. “Yeah, Felix and Locus escaped from Pluto. Sure. That definitely sounds like a thing that happened. I thought no one could escape from that prison. So how’d they do it?”

“The how isn’t important at the moment,” snaps the stooge.

Grif figures that means the Council has no idea. That’s good. Means that the Council probably isn’t breaking down those kids’ doors right now. He’s distracted from that unsettling visual image by the stooge looming over him. He stares back, those stupid cat instincts insisting that the stooge is challenging him in his own territory. He resists the urge to hiss.

“Have Locus and Felix approached you for help?”

The cat instincts get wiped away by sheer surprise. Grif blinks. “What?”

The stooge leans closer. “Have they approached you?”

“Are you serious?” Grif says, realizing even as he asks that the guy is. “Wait, wow, you are.” He almost laughs in the stooge’s face, though he’s uneasy at the same time. The Council must really have no idea where Felix and Locus are. He leans into his genuine surprise and runs with it, giving the stooge an incredulous look. “I can’t even open the fridge. You think they’d ask for my help?”

“Locus and Felix have no friends, no allies,” the stooge snaps. “We’re assured of that. All of their former associates have disavowed the fugitives and know that the Council has eyes on them. Believe me, I am very aware that we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel with you.”

His obvious scorn has Grif’s fur bristling again. It’s not that he’s wrong, exactly. The Council has made sure Grif is pretty much useless for ten years. No magic, no opposable thumbs, no ability to do anything for anyone. Grif still finds himself digging his claws into the couch at the stooge’s sneer. “Yeah, well, apparently they’re not that desperate.”

“And if they were?”

Grif stares. A exasperated growl rises in his throat, though he chokes it back. “Are you seriously asking me if I’d help Locus again? Were you at my trial? You know I didn’t know who I was saving! Why would I help him now? He got me turned into a cat for ten years!”

“He spoke up at your trial,” the stooge points out.

Now Grif does growl. He remembers Locus’s voice, expressionless and surprisingly deep, confirming to the Council that Grif hadn’t seemed to know who he was. It was the only time Locus had spoken at all. Felix had done enough talking for the both of them. “That doesn’t mean I owe him.”

“No,” the stooge says. He straightens. His expression changes, and Grif realizes that he’s trying to look crafty. He adds slowly, “But maybe he thinks he still owes you. You did save his life, after all. What if he came to you with an offer?”

“I’d say no!” Grif hisses the words, earning a surprised look. He has to move. He paces along the back of the couch, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that says Simmons will complain if he shreds the fabric. “If I could, I’d be back in Hawaii. Let the Council handle politics.”

The stooge smirks. “Now, now,” he says, even more condescending now than he was to Simmons. “Don’t you think you should pay a little more attention to politics? After all, you do keep saying you didn’t know who Locus was. If you had, you wouldn’t have helped him.”

Grif hesitates.  

The smirk disappears. “Well, that’s very interesting,” the stooge says icily. “Perhaps we should reevaluate your sentence, if you feel so sympathetic.”

“I’m not!” Grif protests. “But I don’t know if I could just sit and watch someone die!” There’s no softening in the stooge’s expression, and Grif hastily backtracks. “Listen, there’s no way Locus is coming here. But if he does, I don’t even have a way to contact you guys. I mean, mortal guardian, remember? I can’t exactly send a ‘911, Locus here’ note in the toaster.”  When the stooge keeps glaring, he adds, “Being a cat for ten years _sucks_. I don’t want any more trouble.”

Maybe the honesty comes through, because the stooge takes a step back. He glances around the room, his lip curling in disdain. “Well, we can’t give you a toaster. Even a mortal would notice mail popping out instead of bread. Still, let me think. There has to be something you could hide from your, ah, owner.”

Any other time Grif would bristle at the way the stooge snickers as he says the last word. But he’s too busy being relieved that he hasn’t accidentally talked himself into a longer sentence. Ten years is too long already. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to sound snide as he says, “Yeah, one problem. Simmons is a total neat freak. So it needs to be something small I can hide easily.”

The stooge thinks for a minute. Grif takes the moment to hate him and his stupid yellow zoot suit. At least Simmons knows he has to avoid yellow if he doesn’t want to look jaundiced. This guy has apparently never looked in a mirror in four or five centuries. The stooge snaps his fingers. “I think I have it.” With a puff of black smoke, a bright red handheld button bounces on and off the couch. When Grif jumps down to get a closer look, he realizes that the button is shaped like a paw print. “Press that button and count to five and the Council will be alerted.”

Grif shoves it under the couch, uncomfortably aware that he’s right beside the hidden notebook. “And you guys will get here fast, right? Like if these guys can take out Council members--”

The stooge interrupts with a dismissive snort. “You have nothing to worry about, as long as you tell the Council. You have eight lives left. Unless you’re worried for your mortal.” He pauses, his lip curling as he looks around the living room. “Though if I were you, I’d be glad to have a witch owner again. It must be so boring, dealing with a mortal.”

Grif’s ears flatten against his head. The stooge sounds sincere, like he genuinely believes Grif would be _grateful_ for Simmons’ death. For a second he imagines clawing out the stooge’s eyes. Then he gets himself under control. “One good thing about being a cat. You sleep most of the time.”

“I suppose that makes living here bearable. Ugh, ten years living with a mortal probably feels like a hundred. They’re so _boring_.” He points, and the wallpaper turns to an eye-searing blue, and then to green, and then to the same stupid yellow as his suit.

Grif winces, not just at the awful color, but also at Simmons’ reaction if he walks in to see that the stooge has ruined his safety deposit. “You’re changing that back, right? He’s oblivious, not color-blind.”

The stooge rolls his eyes, but the wallpaper returns to its original color. “Remember,” he says. “Felix and Locus got lucky, but that luck will run out. I’m sure we can come up with something worse than Pluto. If they get desperate enough to reach out to you, you have the button.”

Grif has a couple remarks, mostly about the stooge talking a big game as though he’s an actual Council member and not just a middleman. He swallows them back and says, “Yeah. Got it.”

After the stooge leaves, Grif paces. His cat instincts are clamoring at him, hating yet another unexpected visitor to the apartment, but this time there’s not much he can do. The stooge didn’t sit down, so the guy’s lingering presence from the apartment is all in Grif’s head. He finally settles down on the couch, curling up where Simmons usually sits. His fur is still bristling. That stupid remark about Felix and Locus murdering Simmons won’t stop playing in his head. He snorts, trying to distract himself. “Mortals are boring, huh? Yeah, the last year has been so boring, with all the experiments and _someone_ bringing home a couple of idiot teen witches. So freaking dull.”

He peers hopefully towards the door, but Simmons either hasn’t figured out the spell’s finished or he’s still walking back from wherever he ended up. Grif sighs and settles in to wait.  

 

* * *

 

**A Year Earlier**

“Dude, I don’t know,” Grif says for what feels for the millionth time. He knew Simmons was going to ask a lot of questions, but he also thought the guy would run out of them eventually. He watches Simmons’ expression set in a now-familiar annoyed look. “Yeah, yeah, I should know all this stuff. My licensing exam was centuries ago. Sorry that I don’t remember all the details.”

“ _All_ the details? Try any of the details,” Simmons snaps. “I just don’t--”

Someone knocks on the door.  

Grif almost falls off the couch, and then pretends that he meant to hop down from the back and onto one of the seat cushions. At least Simmons looks just as surprised. There’s another round of knocking, and Grif drawls, “Aw, are you finally having a friend over?”

Simmons flushes. “Shut up.” He goes to peer through the peephole. He tenses. When he turns back to Grif, his expression is half-alarmed, half-accusing. “Uh. Why is there a guy who looks like he walked out of A Christmas Carol standing there?”

“A super early start to Halloween?” Grif deadpans, hiding his own nervousness. “I told you the Council would track me down eventually. Honestly thought they’d be here sooner.” There’s a third round of knocking, and he adds, “Just play it cool, let him get me alone so I can talk to him, and we’ll be fine. He probably won’t even want to talk to you.”

Simmons doesn’t look reassured. “Right, okay.”

When he opens the door, the witch at the door sweeps off his hat and gives an elaborate bow. “Hello, sir! I am your local cat inspector.”

“Cat inspector,” Simmons says flatly. Then he laughs, a nervous edge to the sound. “Yes, that is totally a real thing, daddyo. Come on in! I totally have a normal cat for you to inspect!”

Grif stares at them both. Maybe this is a nightmare. Or maybe the last few weeks were just some hallucination and he’s still at Hammer’s, listening to him prattle on about how amazing the Council is and his grand plans to earn a place among them. But no, apparently when faced with a witch who probably hasn’t left the Other Realm since the 1800s, Simmons’ default is to sound like a high-strung hippie.

The Council stooge steps inside. He studies the space until he notices Grif. His smile becomes fixed for a second before he grins widely and says, “I'm going to need to be alone with your cat for an hour, good master of this homestead!”

Homestead? Maybe this guy has never left the Other Realm.

“That’s sure a normal thing to ask,” Simmons says, sounding like he’s choking on his words. “Far out, man. Did you want some snacks or wine or, uh, anything else before I cut out?”

The stooge hesitates, and then says, “What a fine host! I’ll gladly have a glass of wine. Red, if you have it.”

“Uh, sure thing.” Simmons retreats into the kitchen, Grif following close behind and pretending not to notice the stooge gesturing for him to stay. He even throws in a meow for good measure.

As soon as they’re in the kitchen, Grif hisses, “I told you to play it cool.”

“Yeah?” Simmons says, opening up a cupboard and fumbling for a wine glass. The back of his neck is turning pink.

“ _So what the heck are you doing_?”

“I don’t know!” Simmons whispers. He gestures wildly, almost dropping the glass. “But what’s _he_ doing? Homestead? A _cat inspection_? He does know it’s not the eighteenth century, right? And that cat inspections aren’t a thing?”

“Uh, I mean, if he lives in the Other Realm, time can go by really fast,” Grif says. “And he probably hasn’t talked to a mortal in a while.”

“Apparently not for a hundred years,” Simmons mutters. Then he looks around like he’s half-forgotten why he came into the kitchen in the first place. He grabs the wine bottle. “Okay, um, time for a cat inspection, I guess.”

“You have my gratitude, good man,” the stooge says when Simmons pours him a glass. He actually holds up the wine, like he’s toasting Simmons, who just blinks at him. “Now I shall need that hour alone with your cat….”

“Okay, peace.” Simmons finger guns the stooge and immediately looks like he wants to smack himself in the face or crawl under the couch in embarrassment. “I’ll, uh, just start making lunch. My lunch. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me!”

The stooge waits until the door is closed. Then all the fake happiness drains from his features. He bends so that he and Grif are face to face. “Well, Dexter. You aren’t an easy cat to find. How did you wind up here?”

Hasn’t the guy heard of personal space? Grif jumps up onto the coffee table. He knows that he has to answer, but he finds himself hesitating. He's been trying not to think about what landed him as Simmons' secret roommate, which is easy when Simmons is right there as an annoying distraction with his twenty million questions about magic. Now he settles on his back legs and licks the tip of his nose. “So I guess you guys know what happened to Hammer.”

The stooge rolls his eyes. “That he managed to blow himself up? Yes. That was easy enough to figure out, with the right diagnostic spells. I don’t know what he was thinking.”

Grif relaxes a little. At least Hammer and the stooge weren’t close. That faint, nagging worry that the Council might try to blame him for Hammer's stupidity disappears. “Yeah, well. He didn't really talk to me too much. But one good thing about being a familiar is that I have nine lives. Well, had. Pretty sure that explosion took me out too?” He waits for the stooge's nod. “I woke up in that rubble and just sort of...ran.” He tries to shrug, remembering too late that it’s impossible to do as a cat. “Anyway, I think I was wandering around town for a couple days. Next thing I know I’m soaking wet in some mortal’s apartment and he wants to give me a bath.”

“You think you were wandering for a couple days? Do you have any memories of that time?” the stooge says, weirdly intent.

Grif blinks at him. “Uh, it’s all a blur. Why?”

The stooge coughs. “Well,” he says. He takes a sip of his wine, and immediately grimaces. “Ugh, a mortal vintage. I don’t know how they bear it. Anything less than two centuries old is unpalatable.” He points at the glass and mutters a spell under his breath. He takes another sip and sighs. “Chateau Lafite 1787. Much better.”

“Yeah, I drink beer,” Grif says flatly. “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing,” the stooge says, but he takes another hasty drink. “You know that the Council oversees witch familiars to ensure a safe but fair sentence. It’s important to note any oddities in behavior after a death.”  

Yeah, that sounds like a load of BS, but Grif isn’t going to press the point. What does it matter? He’s fine now. And besides, he probably doesn’t want to remember that week. He’s pretty sure he went dumpster diving for food. Or ate a mouse. It was a bad week. “Yeah, sure. I’ve got a question. How did it take a month for anybody to realize that Hammer was dead?” He figures it was at least a month anyway. It's hard to keep track of time when you're a cat. 

The stooge takes another sip of his wine. “A familiar often loses a life during the first year of their sentence. It’s practically a rite of passage. Especially for those of you sentenced to cat bodies.” He pauses and snorts. “So many of you decide to test out the question of whether or not cats always land on their feet. That’s why we make allowances with the nine lives.”

“So, what, you thought I’d jumped off Hammer’s roof?”

“Something like that.” The stooge turns his glass around in his hand.

Grif is half-distracted by the way the wine sparkles and shifts with each twirl. Then he realizes what the gesture means. The stooge is _nervous_. Somehow Grif has the upper-hand. He doesn’t know why, but he’s totally taking advantage. “Yeah, well, I didn’t. Hard to jump off a roof when Hammer wouldn’t even let me outside.”  

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he was a jerk,” Grif says flatly. “I know, being a familiar is a punishment, but he got real into his role as my owner. Gave me a litter box. I might not have opposable thumbs, but I can still flush a toilet, dude.”

The explanation earns him a faint frown. “I see. Well, we’ll avoid that behavior with your next witch--”

Grif coughs. Or tries to, anyway. It probably sounds more like he’s about to hack up a hairball. “Uh. Yeah. About that. You don’t need to bother.”

Now the stooge is really frowning, his forehead creased. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve sort of settled in here. Like, you know mortals. Oblivious. _And_ he’s a pushover. All I had to do was play nice for a few days and he forgot about taking me to the animal shelter.” He notices the stooge twitch again and adds dryly, “Yeah. Probably almost lost life number two. But the dude’s a teacher. Boring, no friends. Who knows, maybe I’ll get through the rest of my sentence without losing any more lives.”

The stooge stares at him. “You can’t possibly want to live with a mortal. That’s an additional punishment in its own right. One might call it cruel and unusual.” There’s scorn in his voice.

Grif laughs around a weird surge of irritation, his claws scratching the coffee table’s surface. “He’s better than Hammer. He might treat me like a cat, but at least he’s not doing chemistry experiments in the living room. Besides, I’ve been here a while now. This mortal is too busy with daily panic attacks about his sad life to notice anything weird.”

The stooge sneers. “Aren’t all mortal lives sad? Besides, this sounds complicated. You’d have to hide for almost a decade. We’ll end having to wipe his memory.”

“It won’t be hard. Seriously, cats sleep like eighteen hours a day. I’ll sleep when he’s here and watch TV when he’s not. No one else even comes over. Dude doesn’t have any friends.” Grif remembers Simmons muttering during those first few days as he hunted high and low for Grif to drag him to the animal shelter. “His family didn’t even call on his birthday.”

The stooge still looks unconvinced, and Grif adds, “Dude lives in sweater-vests.” At the blank look, Grif realizes that a witch still wearing Victorian clothes probably won’t understand what that means. “He is the most boring mortal you’ll ever meet. Nothing will happen to me here. You know, like the _last_ guy the Council picked.” He tries to shrug again. “Just saying, my judgment has yours beat on Death by Explosion right now.”

The stooge grimaces. “I suppose you have a point,” he says, radiating reluctance. “And it could be an interesting trial.” He suddenly smirks and glances around the living room. “Perhaps less witches would break the law and risk becoming familiars if they knew that they would have to endure living with mortals.”

“Exactly,” Grif says. “In a way, I’m helping you. Maybe we could talk about shaving off some time for good behavior--”

“No.”

“Eh, had to try.”

The stooge finishes his wine. His initial reluctance is giving way to a pensive look. “I suppose a trial run is acceptable. If it fails, we can always mind-wipe the mortal and assign you to a new witch.”

“Yeah,” Grif says. His claws are out again. He hides it by jumping onto the couch.

The stooge sighs. “I suppose I have to inspect the place,” he says with a derisive twist of his lips. “Unless I wipe his memory so he forgets I was ever here.”

Grif laughs. Explaining to Simmons afterwards why he was missing a chunk of memory would be an interesting conversation, and by interesting, he means that it would suck beyond belief. He glances towards the kitchen, realizing belatedly that Simmons has probably been listening, or at least trying to. He's not sure how well a mortal can eavesdrop through a solid door. He keeps his tone casual. “You can if you want, but you’ll be missing out on some great sandwiches. Sure, you can magic some up, but his will taste better.”

The stooge looks tempted. “All right.” He raises his voice. “Well done, sir! I see that you have numerous books on your shelves. Cats indeed need visual stimulation, and the variety of colors of these book spines is very appealing!”

“Have you ever met a real cat?” Grif asks, unable to help himself, and is saved from a response by Simmons opening the kitchen door and saying, “Sorry, you said something?”

“I was saying how cat-appropriate your homestead is, sir. You’ve done very well! I see no reason why our friend shouldn’t stay with you. Though might I trouble you for some food before I leave?”

“Right. Yeah. I was actually making sandwiches. Give me a few more minutes.”

Simmons’ answer is clipped, and Grif realizes that he’s talking through gritted teeth and a fixed smile. He doesn’t look nervous, though, and instead is clearly fighting to hide his irritation. Yeah, he heard that bit about mind-wiping.  

“Of course,” the stooge says heartily. “Carry on, my good man!”

Simmons brings out two plates and a bowl a minute later. The smell of smoked Gouda and apple butter hits Grif’s nose, and he gives an appreciative sniff. He forgot that Simmons bought some fancy food to celebrate his first paycheck. He’s a little sorry it’s going to be wasted on the stooge.

“Enjoy,” Simmons says, still with that forced smile. He sets the bowl onto the coffee table, hard enough that there’s a loud clink. Simmons’ eyes meet Grif’s and there’s a look in them that Grif can’t figure out. “How’s the inspection going?”

“Very well!” The stooge waves a hand towards Grif, his fake smile gaining a sharp edge. “You’re clearly keeping him well fed. Tell me, what is your manner of profession?”

“What? Oh, I teach,” Simmons says as he offers one plate to the stooge. There’s no sign of his anxious sixties slang now, just a brittle tension in his voice that thankfully the stooge seems oblivious to. “Right now I’m a substitute, but I’ll be a full-time teacher in the fall.”

“That means you work long hours, correct? Your cat will be here on his own for most of the day? Excellent. We all know that cats are antisocial creatures. The less you interact with him, the better. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if he spends the next nine years asleep!”

“Uh huh,” Simmons says. “That’s definitely something I’ve read in books about cat ownership. I’ll be lucky if I get a meow out of him.”

The stooge takes a bite of his sandwich. He looks startled, and then makes an appreciative noise. He takes another bite. “This is wonderful. I must have the recipe,” he says, and for the first time since he entered the apartment with a bow he doesn’t sound condescending to Simmons at all.

The compliment doesn't seem to register. Simmons forces another smile, but the ingredients come out in a flat monotone. He's not eating his sandwich, just breaking off pieces of the bread and fidgeting with them. “Apple butter, smoked Gouda, sea salt, and sourdough bread.”

The stooge nods, mouthing the list to himself before he finishes the sandwich and retrieves his hat. Apparently food is the way to the stooge's heart, because he sounds genuinely cheerfully as he says, “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. You are clearly taking excellent care of your cat. I bid you good day, sir, with the expectation of seeing you again in a year or two." He pauses, glancing towards Grif. His eyes narrow slightly. "Then again, one never knows when another inspection will occur.”

The last sentence is clearly directed at Grif, but it’s Simmons who blinks and says, nervous again, “Uh, these inspections aren’t on an exact yearly basis? I mean, I can't just circle the same time next year on my calendar?”

The stooge shakes his head. “These inspections are routine, of course, but no, it might be the same time next year, it might be in six months. Especially if there are any unforeseen events.” The stooge stares pointedly at Grif, clearly meaning, _If you get yourself killed after claiming this place is safe_.

“Oh. Got it,” Simmons says weakly. He’s back to his earlier flustered weirdness, throwing in another pair of finger guns as he adds, “Well, thank you for your time, daddyo. Glad to know I’m taking care of-- of my cat.”

Grif takes advantage of Simmons walking the stooge to the door to steal Simmons’ torn apart sandwich. When the door closes, he can feel himself relax, almost dizzy with relief. “Can’t believe we pulled that off. I definitely thought you were going to get mind-whammied for a minute there.”

“Yeah, you sounded really worried,” Simmons says tersely. He doesn’t look relieved. He looks angry, and gets angrier when Grif blinks at him.  

“What’s your problem?” Grif asks, starting to get annoyed. Simmons should be celebrating with him, not looking like he wants to flip the coffee table. “We pulled it off. That idiot totally bought your dumb mortal act, and he okayed me staying here. We’re _good_.”

“Yeah, we’re great,” Simmons says. Sarcasm colors every syllable. “It’s not like that guy wanted to take away my memories or anything, and both of you were acting like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do. How often do mortals get mind-wiped? Have there been studies on the effect the spells have on the mortal brain? How often do witches use magic on mortals in general?” His voice gets louder with every question.

Grif puts a paw over his face and groans. “And here come the twenty questions,” he grumbles. “Dude, I don’t know. I don’t read scientific journals. Nobody reports on, hey, twenty mortals got mind-wiped today, unless someone really screwed up that week. Besides, it’s easier just to lie to people. Most mortals will believe what you tell them. The spell’s too much work.”

“So it’s not that you object to the spell, it’s that you’re lazy,” Simmons snaps. “Good to know. Are you--” He snaps his mouth shut and gives a shake of his head. “Never mind.”  

“Yeah, whatever,” Grif says. He’s really annoyed now. It’s not like he thought Simmons would be jumping up and down for joy, but he thought Simmons would at least be excited for a chance to learn more about magic. He flops on the couch, stretching out so that he’s taking up eighty percent of it. “I was going to say we should buy some pizza to celebrate, but if you’re going to sulk over something that didn’t even happen, go ahead. I’ll take a nap.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

Grif hears Simmons before he sees him, the hasty footsteps and the fumbling at the door. He’s hit with a wave of relief that the stooge’s spell didn’t send Simmons walking into traffic even as Simmons bursts into the apartment.

Simmons looks a little wild around the eyes, but when he spies Grif, his shoulders loosen.“I _hate_ that guy,” he complains, flopping onto the couch next to Grif. He’s sweaty and flushed, like he sprinted back to the apartment. He winces, rubbing at his legs, and Grif instinctively nudges his hands aside and sits in his lap. “What did he want? And what spell did he use on me?”

“Yeah, the spell was dumb. You’re gonna be mad,” Grif warns. The stooge’s spell didn’t leave a scent, but Grif still feels calmer as Simmons rolls his eyes hard enough to be felt through his whole body and then starts running his hand over Grif’s head.

“I’m already mad!”

Grif snorts. “Yeah, true. It was something like, the mortal wants to take a walk, keep him walking until we’ve finished our talk. Like I said, dumb.”

“Dumb and sloppy,” Simmons says, disgusted. “I couldn’t stop walking, not even for intersections! I ended up just circling the block the entire time so I wouldn’t get hit by a car.” He frowns down at Grif, biting his lip. “So I guess everything went okay, since you’re not, um. Gone.” His voice dips on the last word. 

Grif blinks at him. Had Simmons spent the entire time thinking that the stooge was taking him away? It takes some effort to avoid digging his claws into Simmons’ legs at the idea. “Yeah. Didn’t even come up, actually, if I’d be safer in the Other Realm. His whole deal was thinking that Locus might get desperate enough to ask for my help.” He snorts. “I got a handy panic button, though. We can call the Council and cry if Locus and Felix show up at our door.”

“A panic button?”

Grif waves a paw. “Under the couch.”

Retrieving the panic button involves Grif climbing off Simmons’ lap, but it’s worth it for the incredulous look on Simmons’ face as he holds up the button and stares at it. Simmons laughs, high and disbelieving. “Seriously? It’s shaped like a paw?”

“I know, right? The guy's a jerk and an idiot.”

Simmons rolls his eyes. “Yeah, this is stupid.” Then his frown deepens. “What’s the response time? If Locus and Felix did show up, I mean.”

Grif snorts. “He didn’t say, but I’m guessing not fast enough to save us.” Before Simmons can look too alarmed, Grif taps Simmons’ leg. “Listen, Locus won’t come looking for me. I don’t have magic. Not exactly helpful.”

“Uh huh,” Simmons says. He doesn’t look very reassured.

“Seriously. What could I do? Claw a Council member’s eyes out?”

Simmons snorts. Some of the worry fades from his face. “Yeah, okay. How would he even know where you are?” He gets a familiar look on his face, and Grif braces himself for more questions as Simmons starts flipping through his notebook. “I thought scrying spells all need an ingredient that belongs to the subject. So is that not actually necessary, or does it increase the likelihood of the spell succeeding, or--”

“Ugh. Pizza, please.”

Simmons hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, okay. The usual?”

“Well, you just walked a couple miles, and I had to deal with a Council stooge, so throw in some tiramisu too?” Grif blinks hopeful eyes at him, and is rewarded by Simmons loosening up and smiling.

They get cannolis too. They’re finishing off their desserts when the phone rings. Simmons makes some ridiculous faces, half-choking on a cannoli until Grif smacks him in the back. He’s still coughing when the answering machine comes on.

“Hi, Mr. Simmons,” says a slightly familiar voice, talking in a rush. “It’s me. Um, we’re still thinking about the cat-sitting offer, but we forgot to tell you that Grif might get a visitor soon. You might want to clean up, just in case. Have a good night!”

“Cat-sitting offer?” Grif says. He snorts. “Also, a little late, but I guess effort counts a little?”

Simmons flushes. “It was the only excuse I could think of to give Carolina and Church my number.”

Grif considers that, licking cream off of his paw. “Eh, a teacher giving his students his number was always going to be creepy. I guess this was the least weird option.”

“It wasn’t creepy!” Simmons protests. He sighs and sits back down on the couch, picking up the remnants of the cannoli. He breaks off a piece and offers it to Grif. “Okay, it was a little creepy. And I think I hurt Washington’s feelings by not asking him to cat-sit.”

Grif snorts again. “He’ll get over it. Not like you actually need a cat-sitter.”

Simmons gives him another piece of cannoli. “So, scrying,” he prompts hopefully.

Grif finishes off the dessert and curls up against Simmons’ side. “So, I don’t know much about scrying spells.” He watches Simmons’ face fall and feels a twinge of guilt. It’d be nice if Simmons would ask him questions he can actually answer, but he really doesn’t use scrying magic. He learned early on that scrying for Kai whenever she disappeared for a couple days just meant that he was going to see things he _really_ didn’t want to see. And even if he wanted to locate their parents, which he didn’t, it wouldn’t have mattered.

When Simmons sighs, he adds, “I know scrying magic is pretty hard to pull off. Half the time you find the wrong person. Maybe the personal ingredient gives the spell a boost?”

Simmons brightens. “So it could work as a focus,” he says. “Some of the spells mention--” He goes off on one of his theorizing tangents, the kind where Grif just has to throw the occasional “uh huh” and “maybe” into the conversation.

Grif half-closes his eyes. “Uh huh,” he says, when Simmons pauses. He tries to relax, but Simmons’ earlier words are playing on repeat in his head. He keeps thinking about the stooge taking him back to the Other Realm, wiping Simmons’ memories. It’s stupid how relieved he feels, that the stooge never even suggested it. He’s known Simmons for a year. That’s like a split second when you live for centuries. He might think the Council rules are dumb, but witch-mortal friendships and marriages always end badly. That’s sort of the deal when mortals have the life expectancy of sixty years. So there’s no reason for him to feel this much relief over spending another eight years here.

“Grif? Are you actually listening?”

Grif blinks up at him. “Yeah, sure,” he says, and then has to raise his voice as he realizes how loudly he’s been purring. “Focus and spell stuff.”

“Yeah, you’re not listening,” Simmons says, but a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “What I was saying was that I’ve been researching Wiccan and other witchcraft belief systems, trying to see if there’s any parallels. What if for most people, they have a dormant magic gene? So many pagan spells are weirdly similar to ones in the spellbook, so maybe people have osmosed real spells from their witch relatives or friends and--” He’s back to talking again, only pausing when Grif climbs into his lap and flops across his knees.

This time when Grif lets his eyes drift close, he relaxes. What’s there to worry about, other than Simmons somehow succeeding at another spell that messes him up? The stooge probably won’t be back for another year or two, Locus is the Council’s problem, and those kids are keeping their mouths shut about Simmons. He’s not going to jinx it by saying everything’s fine, but this status quo could work.

He falls asleep to Simmons still talking.

**Author's Note:**

> **Honorable Mention**
> 
> 2x05 - The Europa Adventure - Listen, we love this episode. Huggins going one hundred percent into being Church’s fake mom? Amazing. Carolina egging her on and actually getting to relax and enjoy a trip off-planet? Beautiful. Kimball apparently getting her first vacation in decades and having some shenanigan adventures with Grey as the subplot of the episodes? Perfect. Church squirming and hating every second of it? Wonderful. You know what’s not amazing, beautiful, perfect, or wonderful? The terrible, terrible green screen that has aged horribly. It distracts from an otherwise great episode, and that keeps it from being a Best of episode.


End file.
